


Sleeping in the Flowers

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Drugs, Drunk Sex, Intoxication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-28 00:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something in the local environment gets the landing party a wee bit high.  Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping in the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "unknown intoxicants" square of my crack!bingo card courtesy of the lovely [](http://anodyna.livejournal.com/profile)[anodyna](http://anodyna.livejournal.com/). Inspired by a conversation with [](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/profile)[thistlerose](http://thistlerose.livejournal.com/). Features brief use of needles in a medical context (because I just don't believe a tricorder is the be-all and end-all of medical diagnosis), abuse of blank verse, and off-screen drugged sex (both characters). Beta'd by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/). Title is borrowed from They Might Be Giants.

*

  
Spock suppressed a frown as he finished uploading the latest tricorder readings to the ship’s computer and waited, crouched behind a low clump of the local variant of Earth’s genus _Phormium_ , for Doctor M’Benga’s verdict.

When it came, Spock was not overwhelmed by its usefulness.

“I still have no idea what this thing is, Commander. I may need to examine them in person.”

“That would be unwise, Doctor, as I’m sure you are aware. Please continue your attempts to rule out the possibility of an infectious agent.”

“All right. If I sent down some equipment, would you be able to collect some blood and tissue samples to beam up?”

Spock considered this. Catching the captain and the CMO should not be difficult. Indeed, that they stumbled and fell with alarming regularity was what had alerted him to the situation in the first place. “What is your assessment of the risk of a Vulcan nerve pinch on an individual in these circumstances?”

A pause. “If it’s an intoxicant of some kind they’ve picked up from the local environment, there’s a distinct possibility that they’re burning it up more quickly while they’re awake and active. There’s also a possibility that, whether it’s a disease or a drug, new symptoms might pop up at any time. If you have to knock ‘em out, best to leave them in the recovery position in case of vomiting while unconscious.”

“Understood. Please beam the supplies to my current vicinity. Spock out.” He snapped closed his communicator and returned it to his belt. While he waited for the necessary equipment to materialise, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright, yellow sunshine and peered out across the grassy plain at Kirk and McCoy, who were holding hands and “skipping” some four hundred metres away.

A faint tinkling and a brief flash of light heralded the arrival of the transported items, and Spock turned to his left and found the medical kit and assorted paraphernalia within arm’s reach.

The strange grass with its profusion of many-hued daisies was soft, the ground it sprang from springy beneath Spock’s feet as he loped easily towards his errant colleagues. The solar radiation was pleasantly warm on his skin, and Spock enjoyed the faint, trickling sounds of running water nearby. It was, in short, a most appealing planet on which to be stranded with two emotionally compromised crew-mates. (It was certainly much preferable to the frozen tundra of Deneb XIV where he had been obliged simultaneously to protect and hide from a pair of axe-wielding security ensigns afflicted with what the locals so charmingly called The Rage late last year.)

Shortly before Spock reached them, McCoy appeared to trip and fall, bringing Kirk crashing to the ground with him. Human laughter drifted on the breeze.

Spock slowed to a walk as he drew within fifteen metres of his quarry. They were sprawled on the ground, McCoy propped up on one elbow, Kirk on his back gazing up at the lazily shifting clouds in the turquoise sky.

“—Eager as a colt,” McCoy was saying, and the words had a rhythm which drew Spock’s full attention. “Therefore, I must take care of you, you dolt.”

 _Fascinating._ That would seem to be a poem, possibly the concluding couplet of a Shakespearean-style sonnet.

The captain took a deep breath, turned his head to gaze at McCoy, and appeared set to answer likewise. Spock was loath to interrupt him.

“Yo, Bones, I love you more than life itself  
And when you're gone it hurts me deep inside—”

There was a brief pause, as Kirk attempted to come up with a line to rhyme with the first.

“Please stay with me, don't leave me by myself  
You know that solitude I can't abide!”

Another pause, this time for a whoop of what Spock took to be triumph at his poetic successes so far.

“And in the deepest hours of the night,  
When memories of horror waken me  
I need you there to call for greater light  
And hold me tight until at last I see  
That dreams are unreal monsters in my head.”

His expression changed as he continued to gaze at McCoy, becoming softer, more indulgent. Then he licked his lips and leered.

“And also, you're so sexy I could come  
From just the thought of you tied to my bed  
Your cockhead purple, juicy as a plum  
Just waiting for my loving ministrations—  
Of which I promise many demonstrations!”

While McCoy seemed to take it in stride, Spock did not know what to make of this utterance. Although the captain read a great deal, chiefly the classics of the main four Federation cultures, Spock had never pegged him as a poet, let alone as the type to compose and recite poetry as a spontaneous declaration of affection. It was logical to suppose this another symptom of whatever intoxicant was at work here. Spock felt the need once more to suppress an unVulcan wash of gratitude that he had not been likewise affected by the unknown agent present on this planet.

“Well, howdy, Spock,” came McCoy’s languid drawl. “Why doncha stop and sit a spell?”

Since both men appeared indolent and neither presented any warning signs for imminent violence (the lack of axes _did_ tend to inspire confidence), Spock deemed it safe to accept the invitation at face value. He dropped into a crouch by his captain’s feet. “How are you, gentlemen?”

“Happy as a pig in shit,” McCoy announced, while Kirk attempted to cover a yawn while giving the ‘thumbs-up’ gesture with the same hand. “Ain’t it a beautiful day?”

“It is agreeable.”

Kirk flailed briefly before managing to wobble upright. Whereupon he put an arm around Spock’s back and his chin on Spock’s shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Captain.”

Kirk giggled. _”Hello, Captain,”_ he repeated, in what Spock took to be a poor imitation of his own smoothly modulated tones. “Well, you’re just in time. I was telling Bones how wonderful he is. Shall I recap?”

Spock decided he could do without that particular courtesy.

“I believe I caught the gist.”

Kirk seemed to be salivating; Spock could feel the fabric of his uniform growing damp beneath Kirk’s chin. “Okay. Well, we could move on to how awesome and sexy you are. What do you think?”

“Absolutely not,” put in McCoy, sitting up so he could glare at Kirk. He had a colourful confetti of petals and pollen stuck to his hair. The effect was rather fetching. “You will not wax lyrical on Spock’s cock.” A pause. “Hey, Spock’s cock, that has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“I believe I can survive without any poetic speculations in that area, Captain, Doctor. Would you consent to my taking some samples from each of you instead?”

“Semen samples?” Captain Kirk sounded distinctly hopeful. Spock had difficulty deciding whether this was further evidence of intoxication, or merely normal behaviour for James T. Kirk.

“Blood would be sufficient. And perhaps some cheek cells.”

“Kinky, Spock, kinky.” He yawned again and flopped back into the grass. “All yours. I’ll just think up some more reasons Bones is awesome while you do your thing. Perhaps a nice ode to his excellent ass? Though possibly that deserves more than a sonnet. A sonnet _sequence_! Like motherfucking _Sidney_ and shit.”

Spock was not aware of any data indicating that Sir Philip Sidney had been involved in an incestuous relationship with his maternal parent, but he refrained from comment and instead busied himself sterilising his hands, then preparing a butterfly needle and syringe. Kirk squawked in protest as Spock slid the needle into his forearm, but quickly lost interest in complaint and began musing aloud on the subject of Doctor McCoy’s testicles (which, apparently, were _epic_ ). McCoy sat hugging his knees and chewing thoughtfully on the local vegetation (which, fortunately, the doctor had assured them all earlier, when he was still in his “right” mind, was safe enough for humans to eat, thus saving Spock the tedium of scuffling with him over the stalk currently held between his teeth).

Spock was thus able to obtain his samples with surprising ease, and soon was ready to return to his previous location to prepare the samples for beam-up and to await further information from Medical.

“Visit again soon, Spocko!” Kirk called at Spock’s retreating back. “I still haven’t told you how Bones’s ass is like a writing desk!”

***

“Well, it’s a microscopic parasite,” announced Doctor M’Benga’s voice over the communicator twenty-six minutes later. “It’s in their blood and in their brains, messing up the serotonin levels and other fun stuff. It’s in your blood too, from the sample you sent, but it doesn’t seem able to pass the barrier into your brain.”

Spock permitted himself to be suitably grateful for this. He had no gift for verse. “What course of action do you now propose, Doctor? Will you be able to adjust the transporter filters with sufficient precision to remove the organisms on rematerialisation?”

“I’ll have to speak to the chief engineer about that. I can’t say I’m confident. But I think we can design and produce a drug to take care of the infestation within the next couple of hours. If you need to sedate them to keep them calm for that long, it shouldn’t do any damage.”

“Very well, Doctor. Understood. Spock out.”

And so Spock came to understand something of the human art of “babysitting”. For several hours, he was obliged to sit on the ground and listen to the two humans babble on about how completely they loved and (in McCoy’s case) tolerated each other, which sex acts they would most like to perform if they only had the energy, and which animals and objects could be discerned in two-dimensional representation in the ever-changing cloud formations overhead. Spock was also called upon to prevent McCoy from eating soil, though why he had taken it into his head to do so Spock did not know, to remind Kirk to pull his trousers back up after leaving their circle to urinate behind the nearest bush, and to keep them both well away from the river. It was tiresome, and not particularly enlightening, and Spock was pleased, therefore, when he received a communication from the _Enterprise_ followed by the arrival of a box full of hyposprays in a ball of glittering white light. Spock promptly administered his own and the Doctor’s medicine, but found a hand on his wrist when he reached for the captain with the third hypo at the ready.

“Ya know, Spock, I don’t think you should do that,” McCoy said, with a definite hint of growl in his voice. His expression cleared. Then he _smiled_ and released Spock’s arm so he could clap his hands. “I’m the doctor around here! I’m a _doctor_ , not a—” He frowned.

“Hippie,” Kirk suggested. “Flower child. Flower arranger. Space hobo. Clarinet player. Harpsichord. Rhinoceros. 19th century duelling pistol!” He had, Spock realised abruptly, resumed his examination of imaginary pictures in the clouds. Spock searched without success for the 19th century duelling pistol.

“Well,” said McCoy, some of his usual surly demeanour returning, “I am most _definitely_ not a goddamn harpsichord. Give me that.”

Spock locked the hypospray onto the appropriate dosage before he handed it over, but McCoy injected Kirk’s neck without apparent incident, though he leaned so close to do so that his nose almost brushed Kirk’s ear and his hand did tremble appreciably.

“Ooh, Bones!” cried Kirk. “I love it when you stick it in me!”

“No, you don’t, asshole.”

“I don’t,” Kirk agreed readily. “Can we go home now?”

All eyes turned to Spock.

“Soon, Captain. Soon. Perhaps you should attempt to meditate or sleep for a time?”

Kirk yawned abruptly. “Okay.”

Within five minutes, Spock was left to supervise two snoring humans.

***

Spock’s awareness returned slowly, ponderously. Sounds impinged: the perpetual soft hum of a medical facility in operation, low voices, the barely-perceptible thrum of the warp engines. He did not recall beaming back to the _Enterprise_. With an effort, he opened his eyes and blinked until satisfactory focus was achieved.

Nurse Chapel was looking at him with an expression of faint longing which made Spock wonder whether she was due for a meal break. He raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she said, starting to pat his arm and then apparently recalling with whom she was dealing. “Do you need anything in the meantime? A drink, perhaps?”

Spock indicated the negative with a minimal movement of his head, and entered a light meditative state while he awaited whichever doctor was on duty. His body felt… different. There was no obvious damage, but his physical and mental responses were distinctly sluggish.

Spock opened his eyes once more at the sound of a throat being cleared. Curious that he had not heard the approaching footsteps. Doctor M’Benga peered down at him.

“Doctor,” Spock said, and the rough quality of his voice informed him that he had in fact been unconscious some time. “What has transpired?”

M’Benga sighed. “Well, it would seem I was wrong about the parasite not affecting you. It just took more time to make its presence felt. And not only did it affect you, but the drug I devised took a lot longer than it should have to start working.”

“I see,” said Spock, who sensed there was more to this tale. “I recall nothing of import that occurred after I administered the hypos.”

“Well,” Doctor M’Benga said, his hands twisting awkwardly together in front of his abdomen, “that would be because Doctor McCoy and the captain took it into their heads to incapacitate you. Apparently they wanted privacy.”

Spock brutally suppressed the urge to groan or otherwise display his dismay. “How was this accomplished?”

M’Benga fixed his gaze somewhere over Spock’s shoulder. “You have to understand that by the time this happened you must’ve been pretty deeply under the influence of those parasites. You probably weren’t aware of it, but they made you… careless.”

When the doctor seemed disinclined to expand on this point, Spock swung his legs out of bed and sat up. He found his equilibrium after a brief wash of dizziness. “Please answer the question, Lieutenant.”

M’Benga swallowed visibly. Spock might have suspected the man of irrational fear if he did not think highly of him.

“You were perhaps a bit too trusting, Spock. That’s not a failing, really, is it?”

Spock raised one eyebrow. _“Lieutenant.”_

“All right, all right. You failed to secure things down there, Commander. McCoy still had access to his own medkit, plus the one we beamed down for you. And you were all still wearing your phasers.”

It was much harder to keep his expression neutral this time. “Which method was used to render me unconscious?”

“Both,” M’Benga replied unhappily. “Sedatives and phaser stuns are not a good combination, I’m afraid. Even your Vulcan constitution was knocked for six. You’ve been out for the best part of two days.”

Spock ran through six calming exercises in his mind. “Thank you for your report. Am I cleared to return to duty?”

“You’ve still got some recovering to do from the stun. But if you’re prepared to take things a bit easy, you can relieve Mister Scott at the start of gamma shift, okay? In the meantime, you should eat something, perhaps get some light exercise to loosen your muscles up.”

Spock nodded. “Captain Kirk is not on the bridge? Are he and the doctor well?”

M’Benga’s lips twitched in a way Spock could not immediately interpret. “They’re in bed. CMO’s orders. They have some… lingering effects of their ordeal to deal with.”

Spock detected humour, but decided that if M’Benga had wished him to comprehend whatever he was hinting at he would simply have been direct.

***

Seventeen standard days elapsed before Leonard McCoy could meet Spock’s gaze again. Jim, however, was happy to explain matters to Spock’s satisfaction. And beyond.

“So,” he said, twisting off the top of a beer bottle, “we, um, kinda wanted to get naked, you know? So we knocked you out. Um, sorry about the overkill there, but we were smashed out of our fucking skulls and all that, if you remember.” He lifted his bottle and took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So then we forgot all about you and had a lot of sweaty naked sex right there on the ground. Woke up a couple hours later with our heads clear enough to recognise what that funny noise was. Which was three communicators chiming in unison. The people up here were getting worried, hadn’t heard from you in so long. So we answered their questions the best we could, found Bones’s tricorder, did some scans. Decided it was safe to beam us up. So we’re beamed up together, you out for the count, us all dishevelled and wearing each other’s shirts, and Scotty says ‘Made a right royal riot of it, did ye?’ Which is—”

He paused to stifle laughter. Spock waited patiently.

“Which is about when Bones and I realised we’d just had sex.” Apparently, a short flurry of laughter could not be resisted this time. “For the first time.”

Spock did not know what to say to this, but fortunately the captain seemed perfectly content to continue in monologue, once he had recovered his breath after his laughing fit and paused to wipe his eyes.

“He’s all embarrassed. Doesn’t know what to say to me. I think it’s fucking hilarious. And awesome. And I’m keeping him. And you know what? If we get married, you have _got_ to be the best man. And for some reason, I keep thinking that the music has _got_ to be a fucking _harpsichord_ …”

***END***

  



End file.
